holy; and for our Lady's sake read
me a story out of Ser Plutarcho, to soothe my bile: in all that Greek is
there nought about lovers betrayed?"

Gerard read him the life of Alexander. He got excited, marched about the
room, and embracing the reader, vowed to shun "soft delights," that bed
of nettles, and follow glory.

Who so happy now as Gerard? His art was honoured, and fabulous prices
paid for it; in a year or two he should return by sea to Holland, with
good store of money, and set up with his beloved Margaret in Bruges, or
Antwerp, or dear Augsburg, and end their days in peace, and love, and
healthy, happy labour. His heart never strayed an instant from her.

In his prosperity he did not forget poor Pietro. He took the Fra Colonna
to see his picture. The friar inspected it severely and closely, fell on
the artist's neck, and carried the picture to one of the Colonnas, who
gave a noble price for it.

Pietro descended to the first floor; and lived like a gentleman.

But Gerard remained in his garret. To increase his expenses would have
been to postpone his return to Margaret. Luxury had no charms for the
single-hearted one, when opposed to love.

Jacques Bonaventura made him acquainted with other gay young fellows.
They loved him, and sought to entice him into vice, and other expenses.
But he begged humbly to be excused. So he escaped that temptation. But a
greater was behind.

CHAPTER LX

FRA COLONNA had the run of the Pope's library, and sometimes left
off work at the same hour and walked the city with Gerard, on which
occasions the happy artist saw all things en beau, and was wrapped up in
the grandeur of Rome and its churches, palaces, and ruins.

The friar granted the ruins, but threw cold water on the rest.

"This place Rome? It is but the tomb of mighty Rome." He showed Gerard
that twenty or thirty feet of the old triumphal arches were underground,
and that the modern streets ran over ancient palaces, and over the tops
of columns; and coupling this with the comparatively narrow limits of
the modern city, and the gigantic vestiges of antiquity that peeped
aboveground here and there, he uttered a somewhat remarkable simile. "I
tell thee this village they call Rome is but as one of those swallows'
nests ye shall see built on the eaves of a decayed abbey."

"Old Rome must indeed have been fair then," said Gerard.

"Judge for yourself, my son; you see the great sewer, the work of the
Romans in th